


Meredith: The Dissonant Verses

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because lyrium sings, we all know it does, and whilst Bartrand never stopped hearing his song right up until his dying day, neither did Meredith stop hearing hers.<br/>And hers was a song written in the key of Kirkwall, that urban valley in the very shadow of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meredith: The Dissonant Verses

**I.**

The song comes to her in the dead of night, just as she’s wrapped herself up in the sheets and vowed to banish all thoughts from her mind in the neverending quest for a good night’s rest.  
The idol had been triply wrapped in heavy Fereldan wool to keep it from her flesh and to keep its lurid glow from prying eyes. And perhaps there was another reason for this extra care, but she hadn’t thought of it then.  
She only knew she wanted a weapon, and she wanted a strong one, an infallible one, one that would be attuned to her and her only. A weapon that sang, perhaps, but sang the song of justice and retribution — not the siren song the hunk of ancient lyrium is singing now.

She tosses the sheets back and glares in the direction of the swaddled idol. She has never been a fool. She knows whence the odd, slightly grating chimes are emanating. And in the back of her mind, perhaps she knows she shouldn’t have listened to the dwarf, no matter how much of a good sale he talked.

And yet the thought of returning it, of demanding recompense, never crosses Meredith Stannard’s mind.

 _I will learn to sleep with it,_ she decides instead, laying back down and closing her eyes resolutely. _It is only a few nights, and then it will be shipped off to be forged once the arrangements are made.  
It is only a few nights, and then its music will be mine to make._

**II.**

The sword is large and severe in its angular perfection. It seems heavy until she hefts it in her hand — then, it balances itself, the hilt seeming to form to the curves of her palm.  
She lifts it, sweeps it from side to side, delivers a slicing blow to the air in front of her. It seems to sigh in satisfaction, in appreciation of her wielding.

The sword is hers, and only hers. In its surface, her reflection smiles grimly.

And it still sings, but this time, the song is as honed as the lyrium itself.  
The song is hers, and only hers.

**III.**

She grinds her teeth and clenches her fists reflexively, sometimes. A vein jumps erratically in the side of her neck. Orsino watches her out of the corner of his eye as he dresses, thin fingers working with practised autonomy to secure the numerous clasps and hooks.

“You seem anxious,” he comments mildly, but she wheels on him as if he’d accused her of a cardinal sin.

“Anxious? Why would I be anxious?” He doesn’t recall her eyes being quite that bright, although they’d always been sharp. Now they just look jagged. “ _Should_ I be anxious?”

He does his best to placate her, to assure her that his concern is genuine, but he thinks of the way Enchanter Stefan had twitched and babbled, and how they’d had to fetter him in a soft cell until the toxic levels of refined lyrium bled out of his system. He’d been left with a permanent case of the shakes and a tongue with a mind of its own after that, and a new branch of cautionary study had been added to the apprentices’ curriculum.

Behind Meredith’s jagged glare is a red gleam that leaves Orsino cold.

**IV.**

She doesn’t sleep in his chambers anymore.

The last time, they’d been asleep and then she’d sat bolt-upright in bed, and Orsino had tried to ask what was amiss but she’d slapped him away, and she’d scrambled out from under the sheets muttering lowly to herself and Orsino had sat half-wrapped in the sweat-damp sheets, wondering, worrying, calling after her with the hidden force of mana before she could dart out of the doors half-dressed and mad-eyed.

“Meredith, what is wrong with you?” he asks deliberately, his voice laden with magical intent that he usually dared never invoke, and her eyes glaze before awareness returns to her, complete awareness.

“It sings,” she murmurs bleakly, shaking her head. She looks lost, enough that Orsino gets up and goes to her, but she steps away from his touch with a slow, distracted motion. “I’m to be the death of you all. You know that, right?”

“Only if you neglect to ensure Senior Enchanter Christophe doesn’t set fire to the entire library,” he counters in a wan attempt at jocularity, confusion written across his shadowed features. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glare at him for his attempt, and he reaches for her again. This time, she doesn’t pull away.  
“What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s my burden to bear, you fool, not yours,” is all she will say, even as the tears drip onto Orsino’s chest.

**V.**

_I am strong.  
I am Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Chantry and the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. I currently oversee the training and duties of approximately one hundred and fifty templars, and those numbers are rising. I was given this duty because of my indomitable will and my unshakable sense of duty and order.  
If there was any ounce of weakness in me, I would not be here._

_This ‘song’ is nothing but weakness. I am capable of fighting its hold over me. I am capable of commanding the song to be silent._

_And see, it is silent now. It does not penetrate my will.  
When the time comes, I will wield this sword in the name of the Maker, and my will be done._

She doesn’t stop to think of why she seethes with unprovoked rage when she sees Orsino in the Gallows, or why he flinches away from her with the flicker of fear flashing through his expressive eyes.  
She doesn’t stop to think of why Knight-Captain Cullen hesitates before carrying out her orders, no matter what the order. Why a slight, uncertain frown sometimes touches his lips when she speaks. Why her most trusted templars exchange secret looks with each other.  
She doesn’t stop to think of why the Champion raises his eyebrows skeptically at her suspicions, no matter how founded she thinks them to be.  
She doesn’t stop to think of why Elthina shakes her head in abject confusion when Meredith storms into her office and demands the Right.

She doesn’t stop to think of what, exactly, _her will_ should really entail.

The song is silent, and therefore she has regained control.

**VI.**

The song is silent because it has finished. The song has planted its worm.  
The dirge is sung.

**VII.**

Their voices escalate, Hawke stepping away from them with a flinch as if the force of their verbal swordplay is physically intrusive, and the very temperature in the Gallows seems to rise.

Behind Meredith’s eyes is a message only for Orsino, _stop me help me stop me,_ but he can’t read it through the shattered-glass glare.

And then Anders steps into the courtyard, and the ensuing rending of the overcast afternoon sky eerily bears the foreshadowing gleam of red, red lyrium, and the fragments and shrapnel that fall to the city streets are ignored by the fragmented and jagged-eyed templar that closes her hands around the gleaming sword for the final time.


End file.
